Hands Like Fire
by Ready To Flyxxx
Summary: Her's were too sinful to be hands of prayer, and she did not possess the power to use them for creation, so Riza gathered up her wits and vowed to use her's for protection. RoyxRiza


**(A/N): When you finally get around to writing a fanfic about your favorite anime...*happiness.***

 **Summary:** **her's were too sinful to be hands of prayer, and she did not possess the power to use them for creation, so Riza gathered up her wits and vowed to use her's for protection.**

 **Lyrics: Easy by: Son Lux**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **Hands Like Fire**

* * *

 _Easy, easy, pull out your heart to make the being alone easy_

* * *

Riza's father was not a holy man.

He believed in science and numbers and the art of analytics: late nights spent cooped up in his study pouring all of his knowledge into an off-white notebook with dog-eared pages in the place of a holy book. He had a habit of drinking too much, of shouting too much, and putting whatever faith he had in his only daughter straight into the bin. And so Riza didn't understand concepts of religion or faith, of praying to faceless gods whose words felt like a litany of empty promises. The only verses she knew were the lines of scattered Latin splayed out between the pages of dusty tomes that piled high around their home and circles of chalk dust that she dared not touch or face the consequences later. She was an ungifted child who had no prowess for things such as alchemy, even though there were days when she wished it horribly, when she did place her palms face down against those forbidden patterns, arrayed with blood and dust and who knows what else.

Riza did not remember her mother.

She thought she must have been someone special though, because just once she caught her father on his knees, wizened palms flat against one another, arms held outward from his body: the pose of a prayer. From his lips escaped a whisper of her mother's name, and Riza heard it _again and again and again_. It was a chanting mantra that filled the room with sorrowful anguish and just once she felt sorry for her father. Sorry for the godless man who had nothing left to turn to.

Sometimes, Riza would try to mimic her father's stance, but it always felt wrong and uncertain, and _honestly_ , who would she pray for anyway? So Riza placed the memory far away into the back of her mind, and returned to her life of sweeping and cleaning and waiting for a moment to claw her way out.

 _Waiting...and waiting...and waiting (_ and certainly not praying).

Her father's apprentice became a new variable in her life. He was tall, and dark, and cumbersome in his presence, but in his eyes he held unquestionable intelligence and a patience befitting of a leader. When they first met, he held his hand outward toward her frame, slender fingers taught and promising. She had bashfully placed her hand within his own, embarrassed that her's was so rough and hardened in comparison, leather-bound by a tsunami of calluses and chipped nails. They were working hands: hands of a poor unpleasant girl. But Roy surprised her by bringing his lips down and softly kissing her knuckle, lingering for a second longer than was appropriate.

"Miss Hawkeye," he acknowledged with a sneaking smirk that only widened as a blush spread to her cheeks.

And suddenly an opening appeared.

* * *

 _Easy, easy, you break the bridle to make losing control easy_

* * *

Roy's hands were tentative as they slowly removed the drape of fabric from her shoulders. The sudden loss of warmth made goosebumps rise to her skin, but the pressure of his padded fingertips against her neck, his soft ' _sorry,'_ and the way they trailed softly down the expanse of her back sent her body ablaze. _Feverish,_ that's what she felt. She couldn't complain though, because she was the one who suggested he carry on with her father's research.

But did it have to be so... _intimate?_

It required trust to reveal her father's code to Roy in this way: half naked on the top of an old desk, all open and exposed in more ways that one. She had crossed a border of herself she didn't even know she had put up. Her father must have predicted this uncertainty, because he took advantage of a young girl whose insecurities acted as a lock. She would never open herself to just anyone, so as far as he was concerned, his research was safe.

 _He was estranged_ , Riza thought, remembering the way in which he hid his information: tattooed onto her back in angry lines of off-kilter words and spiraling patterns. They bled red with ink as think as her blood.

Roy suddenly shifted behind her and she was brought back to reality. He was so close, almost unbearably so. His chest was a mere inch away, and his head was bent downwards to take in the sight of her open back, reading her like a book. He was professional about too. Most men would have been unable to keep a steady composure, yet he did it with ease.

"Sorry, could you shift a little more toward the lamp light please?" he asked.

This was for study, she reminded herself, moving to where he had instructed. This was for Roy's dreams and ambitions and his unwavering ideals toward what would make this country great. She was a vessel of information: a messenger of her father's ghost. She would help lead Roy down this path, following diligently behind.

This was the path she had chosen.

Riza Hawkeye closed her eyes, and sunk back into the task at hand. Back straight, head forward, arms clutching the drape to her chest (the first time, her hands had trembled with embarrassment and unease, but she had outgrown that). She could hear his steady breath, the scritch-scratch of pen on paper, and felt the burning of his gaze seep into her.

Her body was a book of incantations, of spells and magic words and promises of power. _No,_ her father would argue with a perverse smile on his face, her body was a textbook, and studying it would give the right person access to the greatest magic of all: science. And she would counter that, saying her body was the body of a woman, nothing more nothing else.

What would Roy argue?

"You've always had such strict posture, Miss. Hawkeye," he commented. She could hear the scrape of chalk behind her: long swift movements carved into the ground.

"And you've always slouched a bit," she replied dully, "haven't you?" There was a hint of humor behind her words.

"Too many nights spent pouring over books I suppose. Never mind that though." He was moving away from her. She didn't have to look to see his stance: on his knees, palms together, flat and open like a prayer. There was a flash of light, a spark, and then everything gave way to bright and burning flame.

Flame alchemy - her father's greatest work.

When Roy put out the fire, he accidentally knocked over a small glass beaker, and one of the pieces cut his hand. She had bandaged him up, staring at his palm the whole time and thinking, _these are hands of creation._

* * *

 _Easy, easy, crushed what you're holding so you can say letting go is easy._

* * *

Riza Hawkeye looked up at the puke-colored sky and moaned in agony. This wasn't what she wanted, _God-damn it,_ this wasn't what she wanted!

Everywhere she looked there was smoke and dust and blackened fire, screams of pain and screams of war cries, and terrible scatters of debris and dirt that rose up to the sky in great bursts of explosions. _This is hell_ , she had thought, clutching the burning sniper rifle in her hands, and clambering upwards to a tower that felt like it might crumble under her feet. _This is absolute hell,_ her mind screamed, as she accidently breathed in a great cloud of smoke - breathed in soldier piss and blood and bodily fluids, the smell of which would stick to her uniform for _days-weeks-months(years)._

God was real, she decided, and so were heaven and hell and she had been sentenced to the latter and a lifetime of agony that came with it.

Her eyes scanned the battlefield. She was frantic, her heart pounding loudly in her ears and her body on fire, and _why was it so damn hot?_ Sweat clung to her body heavily, slick against her fingers and wet against her lips and dripping into her vision and suddenly it was blinding her. Her vision was blurring into a mess of colors and Riza panicked. Her heart dropped down to her stomach and she couldn't control the sharp intake of her breath, because she couldn't see him. She couldn't see _Roy_.

The days leading up to this massacre flitted clearly across her mind.

 _Hawkeye,_ that was her last name, and that's what they all called her: fitting for the young sharp shooter that had arrived in the military, and the generals all looked at her with praising, admiring eyes. " _Look at 'er,"_ they had said, " _quick in the mind and quick on the trigger! The epitome of a respectable soldier._ " They latched onto her, hungry eyes greedy for the skills she possessed. " _You're being appointed to the flame alchemist_ ," they said, and added with a wink, " _don't let him out of your sight._ " They knew she was young and inexperienced on the battlefield, but she had eyes of a hawk and steady careful fingers that were too valuable to pass up. Besides, they were low on numbers and needed anybody they could get to be their loyal dogs. " _This is war,"_ they reasoned, " _exceptions must be made_." So they packed her in a van and sent her to the pits of hell.

Desperately she took the back of her hand and wiped furiously across her eyes, blinking away the blurriness. She quickly scanned the horizon until _finally_ , she found him. Never before had she seen something as bone chilling as Roy Mustang in that moment. His eyes were distraught, glazed over with regret and shame and a burden that would be placed on his shoulders for decades to come. The fire that brewed inside him took spark, sizzling crackling flames erupting from his fingers in mere seconds, destroying everything in their path. It was powerful; it was terrifying; Roy was _just a boy._ He was too young - too much of _anything_ to be fighting like this.

 _Snap._ A wave of fire erupted over a building.

 _Snap._ Roy hit a group of enemy soldiers.

 _Snap! Snap! Snap!_

With each crack of flame, Roy's shoulders grew heavier and heavier, until she was sure the deed of what he - what everyone - was doing would crush him.

And then, it happened. She saw the man clearly from her vantage point. Coming from Roy's blind spot, he ran at the flame alchemist in a fury. It was an all out suicide run, the man foaming at the mouth and the intent to kill written in his eyes, and suddenly he was raising a knife, and Roy didn't see him. _Roy couldn't see him._

Her mind went blank and she fired.

 _Precision of a hawk,_ Kimbly would later comment, taking sick pleasure in the fact that she had hit him, quite literally, straight between the eyes. She wouldn't register his voice, only stare straight ahead of her, the bitter taste of _destruction_ fresh against her lips, and a choked sob stuck somewhere in her throat.

* * *

 _Oh, easy, easy, burn all your things to make the fight to forget easy_

* * *

"Take it away from me," she pleaded, clutching onto the fabric of Roy's shirt and pulling him close. "I can't live with it anymore!" _It's too much it's too much it's too much!_ Her eyes were screaming.

"Riza," he breathed, abandoning formality and former honorifics, and stripping her name bare of its obligations toward the military. His eyebrows were drawn downward, worry lines etched deep into his skin and she couldn't stand it. She didn't need this, this _pity._ She didn't deserve that. She felt his hands grab onto hers, holding her tightly as if she might slip away otherwise. "Riza, _please,_ what you're asking is-"

"I am not asking." Her eyes were glasses of water overflowing at the rims; she could tip them over at any moment. " _It's so hard Roy,"_ her voice cracked, "I can't breathe anymore. I, I can't carry this. I just _can't_ " And suddenly Roy was holding her, pulling her body against his chest and burying his face into her neck.

This was intimacy, Riza thought, as she let herself be engulfed in his touch. More so than any time he had stripped her shoulders bare, opened her coat up like the cover of a book and read her openly and without trepidation. It was the closest she had ever been to him, this moment of defeating silence that bore unparalleled trust within its wake.

"Help me forget," she begged after what seemed like an eternity. She reached in his pocket and pulled out a pair of his gloves, letting the force of her insinuation hang starkly in the air.

Roy's fingers trembled as he took them from her, until finally he choked out a strangled, "Okay _."_

And when her back had been scarred and Roy had stared back at her aghast with vicious self-hatred and disgust, she had reached her hand out and took hold of his wrist. "My hands are for you," she spoke.

 _I will protect you. I will follow you. I will die for you._

"So please," she choked out, "don't worry." Her eyes of water finally tipped over, and suddenly she was bawling, deep sobs racking her body in waves. The weight of her catharsis had finally caught up to her. Roy grabbed her and pulled her toward him.

They held each other in the dim-lighted room and for once Riza thought that maybe she could be given a second chance.


End file.
